


A Theory

by theonehewaitsfor



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: F/M, Love, Lust, Pain, Science Fiction, The OA - Freeform, Time Travel, Unrequited Love, scifi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23434729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonehewaitsfor/pseuds/theonehewaitsfor
Summary: Prairie wakes up in a hospital bed with no recollection of who she is. She has no idea of her past, including Nina Azarova. What ensues after is a twisting tale of love, loss, regret, and agony.
Relationships: Prairie Johnson | The OA/Hunter Aloysius "Hap" Percy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

I’m choking, but I’m trying to cough. A frightening thought that I’m drowning erupts in my head, but I know that I’m not. There’s something shoved down my throat, and I can feel my lungs expand against its forceful pressure.

 _What is this? Why can’t I breathe?_ Something is impending me from taking a full deep breath. The thick, crushed glue on my eyelids break as I open my eyes, a fluorescent light blinding me for a moment. My eyes itch, but I can’t scratch them. There’s foam restraints wrapped around my wrists. How inconvenient.

There’s a tube. There’s no one around to know that I’m awake; I want to scream, but it won’t do me any courtesy. Beside me, there is a computer monitor alarming, a fast-paced, deafening medical ding. A slender, silver pole is decorated with totems of intravenous medication pumps.

Finally, someone enters. She seems familiar, but I cannot place where I know her. It’s an uncomfortable grocery store encounter. Neither of us know names, or of our connection. All we know is that we may know each other.

“Hey,” Her voice is warm, with motherly honey oozing from its core. Her hand slips over mine, her fingers slide in the little cinnamon roll center of my fist. “You’re okay. Blink twice if you understand me.”

I blink.

“I just spoke to your doctor. I told him that you’re awake and breathing without the ventilator. He gave me the okay to get that breathing tube out.”

Her name badge is secured onto her scrub top, just to my right, and I turn my head to glance at it. In the egg-white film over my eyes, I can see the bold black letters below her picture. Ah. There it is. Gwen. I can only think of Gwyneth Paltrow and how much I dislike her. She acts as if someone performed a back-street lobotomy on her.

“Hey. Look who’s here,” Gwen’s talking to me again. I give her my full attention, my gaze following her across the room as she stands at the end of my bed. I don’t want to move the tube too much; it’s getting to be a nagging in my throat.

I can hear a pair shoes hitting the floor solidly as they step into my room. A man has emerged, standing in a white coat. I know he’s a doctor, judging by his cleanly-shaven face. Oh, and that his title is embroidered on the left side, beneath and to the left of the lapels. The black stitched lettering is blurry at this distance, but I know I’m going to find out his name sooner rather than later. He’s wearing the stereotypical physician uniform over street clothes, a navy sweater pulled over a plaid buttoned shirt. He has a small belly, which sticks out slightly, and I know it’s from posture and not from a diet of gas station hog dogs and Coke. He’s in his forties, but not over 43. That seems like a decent age.

“Do you remember him?” Gwen asks, tilting her head to the end of my bed, nodding up at the doctor. I refocus my gaze, surveying him. I’m reaching deep down, using my memory fishing pole to hopefully catch a memory. But, there’s nothing. He looks like I might have seen him in the grocery store, or in the street. He doesn’t look like a physician I work with. Maybe he’s new? Cautiously, I shake my head, my eyes looking at Gwen first, and then back to the physician.

He steps forward, his hand gripping the creamy plastic foot of the hospital bed. I can see his face drain of color, his olive-toned skin faded into nearly porcelain. Is he angry? Or is he sad? I can’t tell what emotion he’s feeling right now, but I can assume it’s not a good one. Huffing, he crosses his arms and rotates himself to glare at Gwen.

“It’s alright,” Gwen starts, her words slightly pointed towards him. “We need to give her space.”

Space? What do I need space for? For all I know I could actually _be_ in space!

Gwen continues, her sweet, golden eyes warming me. “I’m going to take your breathing tube out. It’s going to be uncomfortable, and you may feel like you can’t breathe. It may also gag you a bit. I want you to relax, and let us remove it to be more comfortable for you.”

The physician, who smells faintly of a Tom Ford cologne that I sampled once at a department store counter, steps behind Gwen to lean against the wall. I like her, but I’m not sure about him yet.

Gwen’s unwrapping the stethoscope from her neck to listen to me. As she leans over, a strand of her coppery ponytail slips over the cliff of her shoulder. Her natural highlights glimmer under the fluorescent glow from the ceiling, and it makes me think of how my hair looks. I can only imagine how disgusting and matted it is, but that’s all dependent on how long I’ve been here. My thoughts are interrupted with the cold diaphragm pressing against my chest. She’s telling me to take deep breaths—that’s what I’m trying to do, not Gwyneth Paltrow.

My nurse steps away to pick up something off of the counter across the room, slinging the stethoscope around her neck. Gwen arrives back at my side and unwraps the clear plastic of an oxygen mask. Please, get the tube out of me! I can feel it crunch inside my throat, feeling like I swallowed a Dorito crooked with one of the corners scraping down my esophagus.

Gwen sits me up, elevating my head of the bed so that I’m sitting at nearly 90 degrees. She starts pressing buttons on the touch-screen of the ventilator. Gwen is reaching across me slightly, her warm arms pressed against mine. I would move, but I can’t because I’m tied. Some people would enjoy my position at the moment. Not me. She puts a clear tube into my mouth, the suction forceful as it touches my tongue. There’s thick, clear secretions in the far back. I can smell my breath—Good Lord! Didn’t they brush my teeth or something?

Finally, the gagging torture ends, and Gwen lifts my head, reaching around me to un-velcro the strap around my matted hair. I can smell her, and she smells so good! I haven’t smelled anything like her perfume in so long. Just like the doctor’s department-store cologne, I realize have no idea about time.

What day even is it? Month? _Oh shit._ Year? What if I’ve been in a coma, like a character on Days of our Lives, for like.. The last twenty years!?

I feel the strap come undone, the thick, tacky-like pads still stuck to my face. I guess I’m going to get my cheeks waxed today. Gwen’s telling me that she’s going to suction one more time, and then the tube is going to come out. The physician has tucked his hands into the waist pockets of his coat, his gaze fixed on Gwen’s actions.

Does he have a thing for her? He seems flat--like two day-old soda, so I think he’s probably not. But honestly, why is he here? He could go outside to chart, then come back once it’s done to talk to me. Instead, the doctor stands and stares. His eyes are like every quintessential character in a novel, a brilliant blue. But, his are cerulean, with dark navy and brown flecks in them. Despite his distance, I can still notice the details, as his eyes are narrowed, and pointed directly at me.

The tube is being adjusted, the sticky securing pads peeled from my face. Ouch. I know it’s not the worst part-- the gagging is coming. She deflates the balloon which holds the tube in place, and begins her countdown. Ugh, I hate countdowns. I never do them for my patients--I always go on two. Quite a pain in the ass, aren’t I?

My attention is rapidly brought back to the tube about to be pulled from my trachea. Gwen ends her count on one, and with the pull of her wrist, it’s out. Oh God. I can’t breathe! Heat is radiating from my face as I cough. Saliva is sputtering out of my mouth as I struggle to stop the incessant coughing. I think I’m going to be sick, and I gag. The suction catheter is in my mouth, between my open, cracked lips. Tears start to leak out of the corners of my eyes.

The oxygen mask is adjusted to my face, pinched at the bridge of my nose. Green elastic is slipped behind my head, settling above my ears. Finally, I’m free of anything in my mouth, and I close my lips, feeling their crusting. They’re like a painting that has its aging surface cracked by the shrinking of the canvas.

I read somewhere about what that was called… _Craquelure._ I’m relishing in the feeling of my unobstructed mouth when the deeply-rooted desire for cool water pushes to my surface. I salivate at the very thought.

Just as I’m about to motion to Gwen and request it, there’s a warm washcloth pressed against my eyes, wiping firmly to remove the hardened crust that has formed on my lashes. I wonder for a brief moment, if I’m actually slipping back into unconsciousness. It’s bright again, and my heart slows. My eyelashes are clumped together, I notice as I blink and they brush the tops of my cheeks with their bread-like crumb coating.

I try to speak, but nothing’s coming out. The mask makes it difficult to hear if I’m making a sound, the high amount of oxygen rushing at me like the dryer at the end of a car wash. Gwen shakes her head, putting her hand on my arm. With my eyes, I motion to my wrists, begging her to get me out of the fucking restraints. They’re not comfortable, despite their foam padding.

“I’m going to take her restraints off now, Dr. Percy. Is that alright with you?” Her head is twisted backwards towards him. He nods, his eyes glazed over and one hand folded at his lips. He appears distracted. So, that’s his name. Dr. Percy, with his fancy white coat, expensive fountain pen resting in his pocket, and typical middle-aged male hairstyle. It’s the color of a deep tree trunk in the summer, silver lines darting throughout. The subtle waves of his hair are parted to one side, the length on top combed back from his forehead.

I look down to watch Gwen undo the velcro, and I notice that the wrist bands are on too tight--they’re supposed to allow someone to slip two fingers between the skin and restraint. Cold air meets my bare skin, and I smile beneath the clear layer of my oxygen mask.

Reaching my hands up, I study them. My fingers are elongated, with my fingernails painted a vibrant red. I never paint my nails--the hospital doesn’t allow it.. Roadmaps of sky-blue veins rope and twist over my caramel-tinted skin. I hold my left hand closer, startled at the porcelain band of skin at the base of my ring finger. I furrow my brow over towards Gwen, and she comes around to my left side. I’m pointing with my right hand, towards my left ring finger.

“Oh! You’d like your rings?” Gwen’s eyebrows are raised in recognition of our unannounced game of Charades. I have that sickly sensation of my heart burning like icy-hot, my stomach sinking deep into the pit of my abdomen. Something is wrong; why do I have a ring?

Dr. Percy steps forward, prompting me to hold out my hand, palm towards the ceiling. With furrowed eyebrows, I comply. His fingers are warm to the touch, tender against my sensitive hand. I refocus my vision, eyes wide as I look upon the jewelry in my hand.

An oval-shaped diamond ring is glaring at me. It’s framed with small diamonds, enlarging the look of it against the slender, silver band. Next to it is a wider band of round diamonds. The artificial light in this hospital room makes it sparkle, and I pick both rings up with my right hand. Sliding them over my left ring finger, they pause at the knuckle for a brief moment. Then, they’re at the base, a perfect fit.

I flip my head up, confused as to why Dr. Percy had my rings. No, not my rings. Someone’s rings that somehow fit me perfectly. The first glimpse of a smile spreads on his face, his eyes sparkling slightly. Gwen’s touch turns my head towards her, and she takes my left hand. She studies the rings closely, her back arched as she’s leaned over. Now, she stands straight and grins. “You’re so lucky to have these. He did a great job, picking out the ones you wanted from Tiffany’s. Do you… Do you remember who gave these to you?”

No. I remember nothing! Clenching my eyes shut, I force all of my bodily energy into trying to bring up a memory. My breathing increases, the throb of my racing heart is pounding against my chest wall. My eyes flutter open, and Gwen’s face is turned downward in sympathy, putting my hand back on the bed.

“Do you really not remember me?” He asks, his voice vastly different from what I had imagined it to be. It’s deep, as if the earth would crumble with the weight of his words. He speaks slow, drawing out his words so that they linger on his slender lips. I shake my head, staring down at my left hand once more.

“Please, we said we’d give Nina time.” Gwen interludes, playing Devil’s advocate.

Nina? Is she referring to me?

“Nina’s had time. Two months! She will remember me… _She has to._ I’m her _husband_.”


	2. 2

Husband. _Husband?_

I can feel the wheels of thought moving in my brain, but the equipment is obviously faulty because I cannot form an intelligible thought.

My eyes are wide, and though I know Gwen is speaking to me, I can hear nothing but the oxygen that’s blowing into my mouth and nose.

“Nina,” She utters, calling me again by a name that isn’t mine. That name feels as if I’m wearing a sweater that’s not my size; it’s not made for me.

“It’s _Prairie_ ,” I whisper with grit, my throat roaring with fire.

“What?” Gwen crouches over, struggling to hear. Dr. Percy leans in as well, his left hand softly landing on top of mine.

I reach up and pull the oxygen mask down over my chin, looking directly into Gwen’s mossy-green eyes. “My name. It’s Prairie.”

“Prairie?” She asks, standing erect once more. Her brows are bent low, crowding the skin above her nose. Then, her eyes dart across me, looking to Dr. Percy for some sort of explanation.

“She seems to think her name is Prairie.” Dr. Percy states. Or, as I should refer to him, my husband states. I nod quickly, shrugging my shoulders, a look of disbelief on my face. His hand, which is wide with thick fingers, finds the mask at my chin and lifts it to put it back over my face. I shake my head, reaching up to pull it off. His nostrils flare at me, as if I’ve disobeyed him.

“It _is_ Prairie.”

My strengthening voice surprises me. Clearly, I wanted those words to be known. Dr. Percy steps away from my bedside, walking across the room to the counter in which various supplies are set. He leans over and punches a series of numbers on the keypad of a drawer and pulls it open. My husband (ugh, this is so weird to say) withdraws a handbag and approaches my bed once again. I watch as he places the black leather handbag on the bed, beside my knees. Please don’t tell me that’s my purse! It’s in pristine condition, and from here, I can smell that it’s genuine leather. As he unzips the top, I see a designer label on the inner lining when he puts his hand inside. Moments later, my husband is holding a matching wallet open to reveal my drivers’ license.

No way. I’m looking at it, and it’s like I’m Alice, falling down the rabbit hole. I’m immediately drawn to the picture, my face against a dull gray background. Except, it’s not my face. I’m slimmer, my lips are fuller, and my hair is long. But that’s not what surprises me. Staring at me blatantly is the name… My name: Nina Azarova.

“See?” Dr. Percy’s hand finds the crown of my head, his palm smoothing my hair. I shiver at his touch, a foreign sensation. “It’s okay if you’re confused. It’s even alright if you’re scared. I’ll help you through all of this.”

His words are genuine, and an odd sense of comfort washes over me. His touch is soothing as he removes the oxygen mask from my face. My husband takes the wallet from my grip and places it back into the handbag.

“What… What happened?”

Dr. Percy looks across the bed, his eyes sympathetic. “Gwen, would you give us a moment? I’d like to speak to her privately.”

She leaves us, pulling the hideously patterned curtain to conceal my husband and I. He reaches behind him, pulling up a chair. I feel the bed begin to lower, and now I’m level with him. I adjust myself slightly, slipping the pillow behind my back up higher so I can lean my head against it.

“What do you remember?” He asks, his wide hand sitting on the bed. Dr. Percy isn’t touching me, but I know he wants to. And part of me… Part of me wants him to.

“My name is Prairie Johnson. I… I think I live in the East Village… But I--I don’t remember much else.”

“Your childhood? What do you remember of that?”

I pause, my throat irritated from overusing it. “My mother died when I was young, when my father and I were still in Russia. Then, the accident. And then, my father… Dead. ”

Dr. Percy nods before looking down at the floor and bending over slightly to pull something out of his bag. An iPad appears in his hands, and he’s typing on it furiously. “Sorry,” He apologizes. “I’ve been documenting everything since the accident, when you arrived here.”

“What’s your first name?” I question, rotating over in the bed slightly, bringing my knees closer to my chest.

“Oh,” he replies, looking up from the screen. “Hunter. Hunter Aloysius Percy.”

“Hunter.” I sound, smiling. It’s familiar on my lips, and I can’t help but let my face erupt into a large smile. Silent laughter rumbles from the depth of my lungs.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, clutching my belly. “I recognize your name. I know it; I know you.”

His black eyebrows arch towards his hairline, his forehead folding. Hunter’s grinning back at me, and his hand jumps out to touch mine. He squeezes it, and I briefly close my eyes. It’s… right. Natural, I think.

Doubt is creeping in. How am I going to go back to whatever dwelling we share together, and be his wife? I know nothing about this man, nor do I know anything about marriage! I know how to make love, that is one thing. But to be a partner, an equal, in a romantic agreement? Nothing.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question was that?” Hunter releases his grip on my fingers.

“What happened to me?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes pointed away from me. “You were… You were attacked. You had gone out for a drink after work with one of your friends. It wasn’t far from our apartment and the weather was nice. You were on the phone with me as you… As he assaulted you.”

My hand is covering my mouth in shock, my elongated fingers quivering before my lips. Assaulted… I was assaulted. Of course, no one ever plans on being hurt in any capacity, but I have to say that I’m bewildered.

“What did he do to me?” I ask, and Hunter’s head moves back and forth dismissively, his hand back on mine. Anger is brewing inside of me as I have a feeling he’s not going to tell me. Hunter rises from the chair, stepping towards the counter to remove my purse from the locked drawer.

“I’m going to go and talk to your physician about when we can get you out of here and back home. I’ll go by the apartment and get some of your things.”

“Wait, so you’re not my doctor?”

“No, Nina, I’m not your doctor. I’m a doctor that’s your husband.”

“What if I need to get a hold of you? Do I have a cell phone?” He places the purse on my lap and I clutch it because it’s my only lifeline to this reality.

“Your cell phone was destroyed when I found you. I’ll get you a new one tomorrow. In the meantime, use the room phone and call me if you need to.”

Just as I was reaching for the phone connected to the wall, I realize I don’t know Hunter’s number. It’s like we’re on an awkward first date--we know nothing about each other. Well, I don’t know anything about him.

“My number’s in your wallet. Get some rest, sweetheart.” He reads my mind and smooths the hair from my face. I startle, jerking away slightly.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize immediately.

“It’ll get easier, I promise.”

I really hope so, Hunter. I really hope so.


	3. 3

In my lap are two lipsticks in black tubes, 12 dollars in cash, a valet slip, a half-eaten pack of Extra gum, and a tampon. All of the objects thus far have proven useless. I reach back into the purse, removing the wallet and unfold it. After withdrawing all of its contents and spreading them on the white pilled blanket, I begin my investigation.

Yes, my name, according to my driver’s license is Nina Azarova. All five of my credit cards say the same thing. There is no existence of my former name--or what would be my maiden name. Beneath a stack of 20 dollar bills, I find a photograph. It’s Hunter and--? It’s me. I still can hardly recognize myself. My hair is white-blonde and tumbling over my shoulders. I’ve got my eyes pointed downward, Hunter’s forehead pressing against my temple. A veil curtains me, my skin radiating.

“ _Nina,_ ” I hear my new name and I jump. A nurse enters, and I don’t know her name. They must have changed shifts, and I look up at the clock and confirm this. “You should be resting. I know it’s been a big day, but you don’t want to set yourself back at all.”

I nod in agreement, disappointment resting in my tight lips. I let her put my belongings back into my purse and set it across the room on top of the counter, next to a stack of linens and a new hospital gown. The nurse, who stands no more than 4’11”, floats over to the computer on wheels, pulling it to my bedside.

“I have some medicine to give you. A couple of antibiotics and your nightly pills.”

“Nightly pills?” I question, furrowing my brow at her. She purses her lips, looking up from the computer keyboard.

“Multivitamin, Fish oil, Biotin, Prozac, Ambien, and Ativan.”

Rather than argue with her, as I’m afraid she’ll jump down my throat, I watch as she scans the pills into the computer and pops them into a plastic cup. Taking them from her, I down them and chase them with the cup of ice water she gives me. Nothing has ever tasted so good in my entire life. I finish off the glass and ask for more.

Nurse Ratchet leaves and this gives me a moment to think about the medication she’s just given me. The vitamins I can understand, but Nina, you’re taking half of a pharmacy! Prozac, Ambien, and Ativan? Goodness, this woman must have serious psychiatric issues. Then, I realize it’s me. That wasn’t the smartest thing for me to say, I think.

My childhood was filled with pills. Pills to stop me from having nightmares. I tell myself I won’t take anymore.

“If you need anything, use your call light. That includes having to go to the bathroom. You understand?” She raises an eyebrow at me and I nod rapidly. One does not dare disobey Nurse Ratchet.

* * *

Breakfast is not the greatest. I had ordered a small omelet and a cup of coffee. Both were burnt, so I picked what was good of the omelet and discarded the rest. Luckily, Hunter had read my mind.

“Good morning,” he greets me at 8:30, walking in with his hands full. Two cups of Starbucks, and a large paper sack crumbled in his grip. I can smell the food from my bed and I begin to salivate--real food!

“Morning,” I chime, holding my hands out like a greedy beggar. If he’s trying to win me over with food it’s totally going to work.

“I have options. I wasn’t sure what you would like,” he holds out the bag for me to take. Ben finds a seat in the same chair as yesterday, crossing one leg over the other knee. I happily accept the bag from him, nearly shoving my head inside. My options stare me down: a breakfast sandwich of some kind, wrapped in brown parchment paper, or, what appears to be an apple fritter.

I pull my head out of the bag and glance towards Hunter. “Which one do you want?”

He purses his lips at me, taking the bag from me and he sits on the edge of his haunches. A few moments later, he’s finally selected the breakfast option of his choosing. He’s gone with the breakfast sandwich. I smirk when he passes the bag back to me for the last time.

We’re sitting in silence, eating our breakfast when there’s a knock on the door. It’s Gwen again, and I can feel my cheeks raise with a grin. She’s wearing a pair of coral-colored scrubs this morning, and it brings out the fire-red highlights in her hair.

“How’s it going?” She asks, walking over to the computer to begin clacking away.

“Fantastic. When can I get out of here?” I inquire, my mouth full of sweet pastry. The oxygen tubing in my nostrils is irritating me and I wiggle the tip of my nose.

“That’s up to Dr. Petersen. She’s the one that’s been following you while you’re here.”

I shrug my shoulders and continue to work on my breakfast, my oxygen tubing residing on my forehead.

“You need to keep the oxygen in, Nina.” An alarm breaks me from the prison of my thoughts, Gwen reaching towards me to fix the oxygen tubing. The monitor behind me, affixed to a the column, is beeping loudly. I turn, watching as my oxygen levels are in the upper 80 percentage. I take a few deep breaths, and the alarm finally stops.

“We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can,” Hunter starts, crumbling the parchment paper of his sandwich to toss it into the trash and beside him. On his gray sweater are crumbs from the English muffin, his hands brushing over the soft surface. “I know you’re aching to get out of here. But we have to be sure your body’s ready.”

I’m sulking, leaning back against the hospital bed. My ankle throbs, just as it had all night. When I had pulled back the sheets to study myself,, I noticed a white cast ending just below the knee.

“I’m not needing much oxygen, and I’ll be able to use the crutches to go back to the bathroom. Please, let me see Dr. Petersen and I’ll tell her myself,” I beg, my puppy eyes flashing between my husband and nurse.

“Tell me what?”

A medium-height woman with a short blonde bob and blunt bangs pushes the curtain to my room open. She’s wearing a pair of pale blue scrubs, black clogs, and a white-coat.

“I want to go home.”

“Ah. About that,” she starts, coming closer. Her shoes are loud as they thud against the floor. Dr. Petersen’s pulling a chair behind her to sit at my bedside. “You have to see our physical and occupational therapy team first. You’ll need to stay in the cast for another two weeks, and we’ll need to monitor your oxygen levels.”

“My oxygen levels are fine! How much oxygen am I on?” I question, my head whipping over to Gwen, who’s hiding behind the computer screen, charting.

She peeks her head around, glancing up at the vital sign monitor before looking down at me. “You’re at 90% on 4 liters, Nina. That’s not good enough to go home just yet.”

“What’s wrong with me to where I can’t breathe without it? Do I have pneumonia? I don’t feel like I have it!” I exclaim, pulling my knees up to my chest. I’m about to go stir crazy. I need to get out of here so I can figure out what the hell is going on!

“No. Not pneumonia. When you were attacked,” Dr. Petersen lets out a heavy breath, her downward eyes flashing up to my husband. He nods briefly, giving her permission to continue. “When you were attacked, the man choked you. He strangled you so hard that you were left within an inch of your life… And he damaged your airway. This is serious. You cannot rush the process, Nina.”

I groan inwardly and begin to reach my fingers down inside my cast. As I scratch, I glance back to Dr. Petersen.

“Then let’s get going. I want to be out of here and back with my husband as soon as possible.”

Okay, it’s a bit of a lie. Yes, I want to get out. But I don’t really want to go with ‘my husband.’ I’d much rather do it on my own. However, he may be my only path to the truth.

* * *

They took my orders quite seriously. I spend the next few days working with physical therapy, meeting with the orthopedic specialists, and doing breathing treatments and exercises. I’m determined to get out of this place as soon as I can, and I think I’m making progress.

Tuesday, Gwen is my nurse again, and she walks in to tell me that I’m going to a new room. Apparently, I’m stable enough to go down to one of the other floors. As I am being wheeled down, my purse and small toiletry bag on my lap, I catch a glimpse of the TV. Mine had been removed from the ICU room, thanks to my husband. When I grew angry, he said it was only to protect me, as they were covering me non-stop.

I was shocked to find out he was right. My face is on the news. Just as I get into my new room, I flip on the television and find the first news station I can.

The news anchor begins to speak, holding papers in his ebony hands. “Nina Azarova, wife to Dr. Hunter Percy, has woken up from her coma, sources say. You may know her best as the CEO of Blue House, one of the forerunners in today’s technological industry. Ms. Azarova is doing well and is expected to make a full recovery. Her husband…”

I turn the TV off. Holy shit.

I’m a CEO? This is only something that a young Prairie could ever wish for. But no, nothing.

This evening, Hunter arrives after his shift has ended, still wearing his seafoam surgical scrubs and matching scrub cap. I smile at me, hopeful that I can ask him questions and learn more. He plants a firm kiss on my forehead, smoothing the blonde hair from my face.

“How was your day? Are you happy to be in a new room?”

“My day went well. I did my physical therapy this morning and I’m making progress. Soon, I’ll be in a walking boot! No more crutches. And yes, I’m very happy to be in a new room--the other was getting old.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I’m looking forward to you coming home.” He smiles tiredly, sighing as he crosses his legs. I’m seated on the edge of the bed, close enough that I’m able to reach other and take ahold of his hand.

There are mauve-colored bags beneath his bloodshot eyes, contrasting the vivid sky of his iris’. Black and silver strands of hair peek from underneath his scrub cap, and I reach forward to take it off of him. He curls up on corner of his lip and I shove it down on top of my head.

“When were you going to tell me that I was the CEO of a massive company? And that I was… Um, famous?” I question, tilting my head.

Hunter shakes his head, exhaling. “Of course it wouldn’t take you long to find out, would it?”

“Tell me about you, please.”

“There’s not much to know. I work here at the hospital, both in anesthesiology and in the research department. Other than that, I’m married to you and we leave here in the city. We also own a house in the Adirondacks and in Aspen.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m a bit taken aback. I mean--we’re rich. Like… Really rich. Hunter, one of the things I remember is that I was most certainly NOT well-off. Whatsoever.”

I turn and lift my feet back into bed, Hunter taking ahold of my cast at the ankle to help lift it onto the mattress. He moves my feet slightly and wedges himself beside me. Again, he smooths the hair from my face and I close my eyes to relish in the feeling.

“I forgot--I brought you some clothes. Something other than the hospital gown you’ve been wearing. And real underwear.”

I bite my lip to hold back laughter. It’s uncomfortable to hear a stranger bring me underwear, but then I stop smiling. I shouldn’t laugh! He’s my husband. Happily, I take the weekend bag full of clothes and he helps me sort through them so that I can find a pair of pajamas that will fit over the cast.

“These are your favorite,” he says, holding up a pair of gray satin shortie pajamas with a matching tank top. “They’re light and airy because I know you get hot at night.”

Wow. He’s right. I do. He turns away as I pull the gown off of my head and begin to dig through the bag for a pair of underwear. Of course, I must own nothing generic from Victoria’s Secret or Jockey.

No. As I withdraw pair after pair of lace and satin, thong and cheeky, I am floored. For the love of God, Nina! Get some full-ass underwear! I settle on a pair of peach-colored lace panties from Agent Provocateur and carefully slide them on. Just as I begin to stand and wiggle them over my knees, I feel my cast catch on the leg hole.

_Son of a bitch._

“Uh, Hunter?”

He turns around and I cover up my breasts as I point towards the satin caught at my cast. As he bends over, I watch him study my bare legs, his eyes traveling upwards towards my chest. Part of me wants to completely relax and allow him to see me, as he has done many times, I assume. But, I hold the white hospital sheet over my chest as Hunter assists me by sliding the panties up and over my thighs to where they need to be. I am able to to the rest, Hunter handing me a thin, soft robe to pull over my pajamas. He can’t help but look down at me once more, my slender body spread on the hospital bed. I want him to look and enjoy--I’m his wife for crying out loud.

But I just can’t.


End file.
